The Riddle - Alison Croggon [63]
Owan let them go, and Maerad stepped back and looked around with a sense of disbelief. The night’s terror was like a dream that had vanished without trace; the sun was shining mildly in a pale blue sky, and all she could hear was the faint mewling of seagulls and the peaceful lapping of the waves against the boat. Only the White Owl showed any evidence of the night’s travail; the deck, which was usually spotless, was covered in a mess of ropes and detritus all rimed with salt, her sail was still furled to the mast, and her starboard rail was snapped and splintered where the stormdog had landed a blow.
Cadvan surveyed the damage. “We got off lightly,” he said. “Not many survive such a meeting on the open sea.” Maerad smiled tiredly, and Cadvan took her hands and kissed her cheek. “It was well done, Maerad,” he said quietly. “Very well done. I do not know if we would have survived, else.”
“It was certainly the strangest audience I’ve had,” said Maerad, and Cadvan smiled gently and let go of her hands.
“I confess, I’m dying of curiosity,” he said. “Why did you sing to the monster? What on earth or under it made you think of that?”
“I couldn’t believe it, when I worked out what you were doing,” put in Owan, grinning. “There I was, in the teeth of a tornado, battling to keep the Owl upright, and there you are, singing lullabies. I know Bards are peculiar, but . . .” He shook his head.
Maerad studied her hands, searching for words. “I don’t know when I’ve been more frightened,” she said at last. “Even when we saw the wight, I don’t think I was more terrified than when I saw the stormdog. And when I joined my mind with yours, I could feel all its fury. The funny thing was, as soon as I could feel it, I wasn’t frightened anymore.”
She looked up at Cadvan, who was listening gravely. “As soon as I looked it in the eye and it looked at me, I felt different. I knew it was a monster, and that it wanted to break us all into little pieces and drown us. But it was innocent, a wild thing. It wasn’t like the wight, or the Hulls, or even the Kulag or the ondril. When you’re near them, all you feel is —” She paused, shuddering, as she remembered these encounters. “All you feel is their malice. They are full of the malevolent will to destroy life, I mean, all that is beautiful and loving about life. But the stormdog wasn’t like that.”
“It bloody wanted to destroy us,” said Owan.
“Yes, I know, but it wasn’t deliberate. We were just in its way, and it could just as easily have gone on to destroy something else, or not destroy anything at all. Like a storm would.”
Cadvan nodded thoughtfully.
“And as soon as I realized that it was innocent, I remembered my mother singing me to sleep when I was little, oh, such a long time ago. And the song was the first thing in my head. So I started to sing it.”
“It’s a lovely song,” said Owan reflectively. “I haven’t heard that one.”
“It certainly worked.” Cadvan gave Maerad an inscrutable glance. “I would never have thought of stormdogs as innocent before, I must say. I shall have to contemplate this new wisdom.”
“Well,” Maerad returned, slightly annoyed. “You didn’t think Enkir could be of the Dark, either.”
“No, that’s true,” he said, and then he laughed, and the somberness vanished completely from his face. “It seems that all my certainties are doomed to crumble to dust.” There was a short pause. “Well, I for one need some breakfast,” said Cadvan. He pulled up the trapdoor and disappeared down the gangway.
Maerad sat down on the deck, suddenly too exhausted to move. Owan, with the discipline of long habit, began to coil up the littered ropes.
Soon Cadvan returned with a flask, some plates, a cloth, a loaf of bread and some cheese. “It’s a mite wet down there,” he said. “But these escaped the general drenching.” He spread the cloth out on the deck and laid out their meal. “Leave that, Owan. I’ll help you later. Have some of this.”
He passed him the flask. Owan took a long swig, wiped the neck of the bottle,